


You Break My Fucking Heart

by zeldadestry



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: 100_women, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-31
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:27:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I drank too much when I was a teenager, it's true; I drank myself sick. But I never tried to kill myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Break My Fucking Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 68, 'fire', for 100_women fanfic challenge

"Listen to me, Lia." Laertes lunges for my hand from across the table, knocking over his glass in the process. Red wine spreads its stain across the cream colored cloth but he pays no attention, squeezes my hand so hard it hurts and I smile at the ache. "You can not go back to him. He is going to destroy you."

"Maybe I already know that. Maybe I don't care."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"No, you're trying to tell me what to do and how to live my life. You've ordered me around and treated me like an idiot, a fool, always saying your concern is for my sake, when really you're just worried that I'm going to embarrass you, damage your reputation. You're just like Dad."

"And where would you be if I hadn't always looked out for you? You wouldn't even be here."

"Laertes, I know, I know. But I was a child back then. I'm not anymore."

He stands, shakes his head at me, rips his wallet from the inner pocket of his sport coat and throws two hundred dollar bills down on the table. "Do whatever you want," he says, shaking off my entreaties to stay, to calm himself. "Do whatever you want, but I hope you know you break my fucking heart."

 

"People are idiots," I complain to Horatio, who only watches and waits. "What? Let me guess. You hear this kind of misanthropic shit from Hamlet all the time? He's such a baby. Don't even get me started. God, I really hate him sometimes."

There was a time when I always made fun of him. Before I knew him, I just, shit, I'm going to sound like such a snob. Ok. Don't hate me. Basically, because Horatio's family doesn't have much money and Hamlet's family is loaded, I just assumed that was why they were friends. Like Horatio saw Hamlet as his meal ticket or something. I know. It's shitty. And it's exactly what people say about me.

People say a lot of things about me. It used to hurt, but now I'm, I'm not used to it, but I'm over it. I realized there was nothing I could do. Long as I thought if I just looked prettier, talked smarter, acted kinder, everyone would like me and be nice to me, long as I believed that I was miserable.

I drank too much when I was a teenager, it's true; I drank myself sick. But I never tried to kill myself.

I just fell. I just fell into the pool.

Our mom had really small hands, and I loved to wear her rings, but they didn't fit anywhere except my pinkies and they were a little too loose there. But I didn't want to get them sized, I didn't want anything changed from how they were when she wore them.

At the time we lived in a building with a roof top garden and pool. And one night I went up there, climbed the stairs, because I didn't want to risk any of the neighbors seeing me smashed in the elevator. I remember it felt like it took me forever to get there, because my balance was all fucked up. I remember I was singing to myself and giggling, and then I finally reached the top and it was like paradise on that roof. The flowers smelled so sweet, and I went from plant to plant, taking a bloom from each. And I lay by the edge of the pool and dropped the petals in the water, one by one, and one of my rings fell off. And I leaned in and tried to reach it and I leaned further and a little bit further, and then I fell in.

At first I tried to fight, struggled to make my way back up to the surface. But I was so tired, and my dress was so heavy. Then I felt arms around me, clinging to me, drawing me down, and I thought I recognized my mother's voice saying my name. I surrendered.

When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the cement, looking up at the city's starless, moonless night sky, and Laertes was beside me and he was crying. And then I cried, and I put out my arms to him, just like I did when I was a little girl. I hugged him, and he picked me up, just like he used to, he put his arms around me and lifted me up off the earth so I was suspended above the ground; I was flying.

When he put me back down he made me promise that I would take good care of myself, that I would keep myself out of harm's way.

"I couldn't go on living if something happened to you, do you understand?" That was what he told me that night.

I haven't always kept my promise.

 

He is staying in his Uncle's penthouse, and I meet him on the balcony.

"How long will you wait?" Hamlet asks.

"What?"

"When I die. How long will you wait?"

"I know you're mad at your mother. I understand. But don't take it out on me."

"I've seen the way you look at Horatio, I've seen the way he looks at you."

"Nothing is ever going to happen between us, I promise."

"I know. I know he would never want to hurt me."

"Neither would I." His hair and skin are greasy and when he stands close to me, I can smell his sweat. It's not a bad smell. I even like it. Figures. Whatever pheromones create lust, he's always had just the right chemical combination to ensnare me. He's wearing a white oxford shirt, the kind my brother favors, but it's wrinkled and stained, blood, maybe, or mud, smeared across it. "You look like hell."

He ignores me, stares down from this height. "You know one of the reasons I always hated it here?"

"Why?"

"The temptation to jump. Wouldn't it be beautiful to fall past all the lights of the city? How much do you think it hurts when you hit the ground?"

"You lose consciousness before that."

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulls me up to the ledge. "The railing here is low." I look at the city streets so far away beneath me. "It would be so easy to fall, so easy for me to take someone with me."

"You're scaring me."

He kisses my cheek. "I would never hurt you. No, not you."

"Then don't say things like that."

"Stay with me. Please."

"I shouldn't."

"I can't sleep, not if I'm alone, and I'm so tired, so tired."

"I can't."

"Please? Please, Ophelia, please."

No one tastes like he does. I once read a Taoist theory about how the spit of the one you love balances your chi, and I remember it when he kisses me.

He tastes sweet to me, and necessary.

 

He does not wake when I leave the bed, nor as I dress, nor as I bend down to kiss his shoulder.

"I love you," I whisper, "but you break my fucking heart."

 

Soar and spark, my love, or crash and burn.

But whichever you choose, don't expect to take me with you.

I died for you once and I never will again.


End file.
